Returning to writing is very much akin to opening a creaky, rusty, haunted door. While nothing was out of place, but since all the figurative “furniture” of memories had been covered with white sheets, this place still is a stranger to me.
It is terrible to think that my will to write is weak, and no amount of good desires and intentions could have ever convinced me to simply lay down those words. Singularly and without nary a backward glance. If the shortage in supply of time were the culprit, why had I squandered the many sleepless nights then? If, in place of peering through the shadowy darkness, should I have not traded one eyes-open stillness for a jot on the unchartered page? The last time I did do that was so long ago, and if it were even plausible, it might be dumbfounding to suggest that I have not lived fully these past four years. 2012 holds the most recent, or ancient post. That troubles me to the very core of my existence.
How intolerable it is to not come up for air after lingering below the proverbial sea of making a living instead of simply living, cherishing each breath? Like the humble penny, each breath seems insignificant, not enough to register.
And yet, each borrowed and conditional breath, marks time, as it passes by, without ever looking back.